What If Fire Emblem: Three Houses Edition
by queenofowls
Summary: A series of AU scenarios. Each chapter is standalone.
1. What if Dedue Molinaro were a merman?

**What If... Dedue Molinaro was a merman?**

* * *

The first time they meet, he is on the brink of death.

Byleth is a small child of ten, feet bare as she walks along the sands and sees the gasping form for the first time. Her father normally worries when she wanders at night especially, but she cannot help her drawn to the sea by the most recent home they have made, a small hut by the sea in a sea-trading village that could not be further from the halls of Garreg Mach. Particularly, from the Archbishop of Garreg Mach, who he is still certain had a hand in his wife's death.

This night is no different.

She draws closer with wide eyes only to see that it is not... not an 'it' at all. A boy her age, or slightly younger, lies there, his dark skin shimmering with scales around his eyes and ears and chest. In one ear, she can see it: a heavy, golden earring in a single ear. It is not very large and yet it feels as though it weighs more than his exhausted frame can bear. His eyes roam wildly and, when they catch sight of her for the first time, there is no fear in them. Instead, they gaze at each other with looks that do not suit their ages; his eyes are too serious and hers too wise for forms so young.

Neither of them speak as her eyes catch sight of the space below his hips, a glittering thick tail that reminds of her the largest fish she has never seen. It flops uselessly against the sand. He points to the ocean, still gasping slightly. For a moment, she thinks to grasp his tail, but he is much too slippery and her grip is too small to be effective. Holding up a hand, Byleth nods with determination, running back to her home.

The child's eyes trail after her, his tail flopping weakly against the sands as he gasps for breath.

"Father. There is a fish boy here." Her deadpan voice rouses him, little hands shaking his solid form with as much haste as she can muster. "We must help him." Jeralt forces his eyes to open. He has long since accepted that his child's quirks are ones that he perhaps will never be able to understand and so, when he sees her tugging his sleeves, urgently motioning towards the door, he merely sighs and forces himself to sit up. _Fish boy? _He follows her outside of the house where the child still lies, breath weaker than before.

_Okay, then. A... a fish boy it is._

He grimaces slightly at the continued mysteries of the world. In reality, Jeralt does not care so much that they exist-but he is more or less fed up with the idea that these mysteries choose to find themselves on his particular doorstep. Taking no time to waste, he hoists the child wholesale into his arms, hastening towards the ocean to dip him inside. At first, the boy sinks and he fears him dead, but then, his eyes burst open. Unlike the dull color they were on land, he can see them glowing in the night. With a flick of his tail, he disappears. Jeralt turns towards Byleth's wide-eyed form on the beach.

"Hey, kid. Looks like your, uh, fish boy's going to be alright." He steps back onto the beach barefoot and scoops her into his arms. At ten, she is much too big to be held like this, but he's strong enough to do it anyway, and no one will tell him that his kid isn't his kid until she does so herself. She nods, then hugs him around the neck tightly as a thank you. "And what were you doing out so late anyway?" She blinks at him owlishly. "Ah, don't look at me like that... I know you're not going to say anything even if I ask, but you shouldn't be wandering around at night, kid. It's not safe." Jeralt sighs, shaking his head. "Come on, let's get you back to bed. We've got sword training in the morning."

Byleth does not mention the child again, but Jeralt catches her, every once and a while, staring out towards the waves with some interest. The following weeks are uneventful, until the day Jeralt opens the door to a startling sight. An arrow entirely made of polished coral is driven deeply into his front door, a small pouch hanging front the shaft. He pulls it out, grunting with the effort. "Coral, huh..." He has an inkling of the arrow's origin. Opening the attached pouch, he checks it for anything dangerous.

All in all, the assortment of items is benign: some flat polished stones, a small, golden fan shaped earring, or if he squinted, he guessed he could say it was shell-shaped... and besides that, a small, carved figurine that was unmistakably supposed to be of Byleth, also made of polished coral. He almost missed the tightly rolled scroll of seaweed-like paper, but when he unties and unravels it, there are scribbles that he could not begin to decipher.

Sensing a presence close by, he notes Byleth's silent silhouette in the doorway.

"No need to hide. It seems your fishy friend left you a little gift." He shakes his head, placing the pouch in her hands. Staring down at it in wonder, Byleth runs back into the house, then returns with something new cupped in her hands.

"A flower? What, you want to give it back to him?" She nods solemnly. "Well, I'd hate to break it to you, kid, but I'm not sure it'll last for very long in the water." To his great chagrin, her expression falls. He struggles not to embrace her. _Ah, Jeralt, you're getting soft._ "Look, maybe if we make a flower out of something sturdier, he'll be able to receive it. How's that sound?" She nods, her expression blank, but the speed with which she does it expressing her enthusiasm clearly enough. Jeralt shakes his head as he motions behind him. "Let's go find some wood to work with first." Pausing, he places his hand on his child's head, gruff wonder in his voice. "I have to say, kid... You're a magnet for mystery."

* * *

Byleth does not often think of her father's words when she dreams, but when she awakens that night, they are on her mind. She stares up at a ceiling of solid sturdy wood and not stars, and for a moment does not know who or what or where she is. Byleth reminds herself slowly as is her daily routine. She is no longer a mercenary. Now, she is a professor. _"A magnet for mystery..."_ She murmurs the phrase quietly to herself as she looks at the coral figurine on her dresser. She has never been one for reminiscing, so why this particular memory comes to mind and rouses her is something that she cannot quite puzzle out.

_"Yes, I agree."_ Sothis' voice rings out, despite her form choosing not to manifest. _"Something in your blood calls to the hidden beasts of this world, I think. How strange that I, too, remember that encounter."_ Sothis pauses thoughtfully. _"I wonder if my presence has something to do with it."_

Byleth sighs. She just wants to sleep.

_"No need to get huffy. Why don't you follow those magnetic instincts of yours, then? Something is surely calling you, and now I too am curious."_

**Fine.**

Frustrated, Byleth pulls on her cloak and quietly steps outside of her doors. She mutters under her breath. "Any ideas as to where my gut is pulling me?"

Sothis is silent. Of _course_ she is. But perhaps she is answering in her own way, because, as Byleth's eyes trails the monastery, she finds herself knowing where to go. Her feet guide her towards the greenhouse, and further still, to the pier.

Coughing, choking, shuddering, she sees him dragging himself from beneath the water. Byleth looks around but there is no one on the grounds but her. Somehow, no one else is seeing what she is: a half-drowned stranger, wearing absolutely nothing at all as he drags himself from the depths pond onto the dry cobblestone, seagrass drapped across his ankles. She does not know why she does not sound an alarm-perhaps those instincts Sothis spoke of? Instead, she finds her legs hastening towards the figure.

"Are you-" Before she can speak further, he glares at her harshly, but she does not let the expression intimidate her, even as she can see a familiar glittering across his face. Scales...? Just like the fish b-her eyes shift sharply towards his bottom half before whipping back towards his face. _That_... is not a tail. Perhaps she... she is mistaken. She finishes her sentence more or less calmly, quickly removing her cloak and holding it out with a hand. "-alright?"

He opens his mouth to speak, his lips moving quickly, but no sound comes forth. Alarmed, he touches his throat.

_"So he cannot speak."_ Sothis' voice muses in her mind, mildly surprised. _"How unusual... and interesting. Take him to your room. Let me see if there is something I can do for the poor child."_

_Child?_

Byleth lifts an eyebrow at the word. He is the tallest man she has ever seen, bar none, with broad shoulders, high, chiseled cheek bones and wet silvery hair that glistens in the light of the full moon far above. She would hardly call him a child... Still, Byleth nods at the instruction and beckons with her hands. "Follow me." He struggles to stand, his knees collapsing as he supports his weight on shaking calves.

Sothis makes her presence known then-not that he can see her. She floats about the man, observing him. _"Trouble walking as well? Perhaps this is not his usual form. If not, I completely understand what it is to wake up in the wrong body."_ She looks at him sympathetically, then gapes at Byleth. _"What, will you stand there, eying his flesh like a love-struck fool? Help him up!"_

_Ah... right._ She quickly, clinically wraps the cloak around his waist and tosses an arm over her shoulders, grunting under his weight. Together, shakily, they hasten back to her room. Byleth seats him on her bed. First, she must find him clothes.

"Wait here." Byleth has no clue if he can understand her, but she departs immediately for the one person she can trust to keep this a secret.

He opens the door, takes one look at her steady stare and sighs. "Whatever it is, I have a feeling I'm not going to like this one bit." She steps inside the Captain's room and shuts it behind her.

"Do you remember the fishboy?"

Jeralt lifts an eyebrow. "I'm surprised that you do. Though, I guess, you did keep those little mementos he sent you over the years. Including your little earring there." Byleth touches the shell shaped piece dangling from her ear unconsciously, as though she is only just now remembering its origins. "I also remember having to shoot barrels of arrows into the ocean with your little gifts back. People must've thought I looked nuts wasting good shafts like that." He rubs his neck uncomfortably. "When we had to move on to the next town, I _also_ remember you were mad at me for two weeks. Didn't speak a word to me the entire time." _That happened?_ Byleth stares at him blankly. She only remembers their meeting, the gifts and... well. Not much else. Her eyes trail towards the ground with something like guilt, but Jeralt grins. "Oh, don't feel _too_ bad. Your old man's heart's recovered by now." He sobers up. "Now. What is it you want to tell me?"

"I need your clothes."

"_My_ clothes? Why would you..." Jeralt trails off. "Is he... is he here? Or someone like him?" Byleth shrugs in reply and Jeralt can tell that's all he's getting out of her. He shakes his head. "Never mind. I'm better off not knowing, anyway." He shuffles through his drawers and hands her a set of linen clothes. "Whatever you do with them, I don't need to know. You don't even need to give them back. Just... look. If there's one thing I've learned about raising you, it's that you're someone who attracts all kinds of trouble. Be safe, alright?" Byleth nods solemnly, taking the clothes. "Alright. See you, kid."

* * *

When she returns to the room, the massive man is still seated on her bed, her cloak wrapped around his waist like a towel. He is staring down at something clasped in hands. She looks to see what he's holding when-a look of displeasure flashes across her face.

"Don't touch that!" He looks up, startled for a moment before his expression relaxes. Slowly, deliberately, he places it back onto the table, lifting his hands in an apology. Byleth places the table on the other end, then picks up the figurine to inspect it carefully. As she does, she suddenly feels his presence behind her. She turns and he is close. Her eyes widen as he closes his hand around the one holding the figurine carefully.

Pointing to himself, he shakes her hand lightly. She pulls away, uncomprehendingly, but her back only hits the table. He doesn't move closer, a look of passive acceptance crossing his face. He backs away, taking a seat back onto the bed.

_"He's trying to tell you something! What could it possibly be?"_ There is sarcasm in Sothis's voice that Byleth ignores.

**I'll ask him once he's fully clothed**, is her dry, inward retort. Sothis huffs.

_"Clothed? As if such a thing would bother me."_

**Exactly. Bother _you_. But I'm human, and he's...** She lets the thought trail off. _Is_ she human? Maybe? But... she looks over her shoulder as he broods silently, staring at the ground. His chest and arms are still glittering slightly, but if she isn't mistaken, the scales seems to have... retreated? They are certainly less evident than they were before.

Byleth turns back the clothes on the table. _First to make good on her promise._ "Hey." He looks up. Byleth starts with the smallclothes and pants, and miming stepping into them, she hands them to him before turning her back.

Sothis chuckles lightly into her ear. _"I think I have a proposal."_

She tries not to sigh aloud in reply. **...Proposal?**

_"I need you to touch him on the chest. If I can touch his heart, perhaps I can lend him some of my power."_ Byleth feels her face heating up, her eyes narrowing.

**You wish for me to lay hands on a stranger?**

_"As if such a thing would bother you. I can read your thoughts, even those you dismiss, and I know exactly what you thought when you saw his-"_

**Stop! Please stop speaking.**

_"Tsk! So impudent! But, as you wish. Besides, I was going to say... I don't think he's as much of a stranger as you think."_

**What does that mean?**

_"Oh, as if you do not know. You called him 'fish boy' to your father! Clearly you are not as obtuse as you are pretending to be right now."_

**I can't be certain.**

_"Well, do not fret. **I** am certain that if he is not your fish boy, he is close enough to be someone of importance. Now, turn around. He awaits the tunic. Be sure to touch his chest first."_ Sothis cannot help but tease her lightly. _"Try not to enjoy it too much."_

Byleth sighs, turning around. As Sothis mentions, he is indeed standing, at last partially clothed. Byleth takes the tunic in hand. As he reaches for it, she stops him. "Wait, I... please trust me." He tilts his head inquisitively, so she takes a deep breath. "I..." She points to herself. "You..." She points to him. "Touch." She mimes pressing her hand against her chest. His eyes widen in comprehension, before he nods with some uncertainty. He folds his hands behind his back, grasping one wrist with the other as he waits.

Reaching out, Byleth places her flat palm against his chest. And when she does-

A rush of images fills her mind. An explosion, deep in a place that could only be the sea. Clashing armor and waves and then, Dedue washing ashore-_ah, so that is his name_-and then, from his perspective, she sees her small self approaching him on the beach. More images flow into her mind. He's been looking for her because beneath the sea, because of war, his people are gone and there is another figure telling him to swim, swim to land and never return. She is the only person he knows above land and now after many years-

She gasps, taking a step back. For once, Sothis has almost nothing to say. Almost. _"How exhausting... Please update me later... will... you?"_ Sothis falls silent, but it does not matter now. She has words to say to him.

"You're him. The fish boy I saw on the beach." He looks conflicted for a moment at the word 'fish' before nodding in agreement. "And you don't have anyone else." He nods firmly again. Her voice is filled with a quiet marvel. "And you can understand me now." Another nod. She stares at him, then crosses her arms. "It's nice to finally meet you. My name is Byleth."

"I... am Dedue." His eyes widen as he touches his own lips, then grimaces, apparently at the sound of his own voice. "What did you do?" Byleth shrugs, in part because she does not know the answer, in part because if she did, she would have to explain Sothis, and she does not know enough about him to do such a thing.

"Welcome to Garreg Mach."

He clears his throat. "Yes, I am aware. This is the haven of the goddess, is it not?"

Byleth lifts an eyebrow. "You know of Sothis?"

He shrugs. "I do not know her name in your tongue, but... we have stories. A creator who gave us form before leaving to bless the land. Some say she was to return but..." He trails off. Her questions come, flat and direct, at the end of each answer.

"Did you know I was here?"

He shakes his head. "I came for sanctuary, but... I could not reveal myself. For these few months, I have kept watch from beneath the pond. When I saw you, I... suspected."

"How?"

"Your earring." Byleth hand drift upwards to light on the fan shape hooked in her ear. "I gave it to a... someone I knew, many years ago." Sheepishly, he rubs his neck. "Actually, I did not mean to reveal myself now." At her inquisitive stare, Dedue clears his throat. "I... I merely wished to enter into the building with unseeable walls." He grimaces, but his response only peaks her curiosity.

_The greenhouse? What could possibly be of interest there?_

"You like... flowers from land?" He nods once in reply. "Why?" Dedue hesitates. Holding out his hand, she notices for the first time that his fist has been tightly clamped shut around... something. He opens it, and inside, there is a polished wooden flower blossom, wet and worn with age.

It's a figurine that she should not recognize, and yet... she does. Actually, Byleth can see it in her minds' eye, sitting on a dirt floor as her father whittles away at the piece of wood she has carefully selected.

_"Kid, you're really testing my abilities with these flower gifts."_ He grumbled the words under his breath, but... he'd kept carving.

"They are such... beautiful things. I wish to learn to care for them, if I could. And... if possible... to make things such as this." He trails off, standing. "But I do not wish to bother you."

Byleth stops him with a hand. "Allow me to bother you, would you?" Dedue looks at her inquisitively as she digs through a drawer. Finally she finds what she seeks-a small box filled to the brim with tiny scrolls. "This is the last one I received before we had to leave. What does it say?" Dedue looks surprised that she has kept them all of this time. He carefully peels open the one she offers, his eyes scanning the symbols that she has never been able to decipher. The further he reads, the lower his eyebrows tilt, until he finishes the scroll, his lips tilted low in a deep frown.

"It is... something I wrote five years ago." She... knows that as much. _Just 'something'? _She looks to him for more information but he avoids her gaze. The candlelight in her room is dim but in the glow of the fire she can almost swear that in spite of his displeased expression, Dedue's ears are red. "A poem I wrote for someone who's attentions I wished to catch." He stares down at her, then looks away. "But it has been many years, and I do not expect such things." Byleth finds herself wordless. Usually she does not wish to speak, but not... no words come to mind as he stares down at her with an unreadable expression in his light eyes. Byleth finds her words.

"The room beside mine is vacant." She will need to speak with Se-Rhea. Seteth will, most likely, say no the moment he realizes that Dedue's origins are more cast in shadow than even hers are. _Still..._ She thinks on her father's words.

_A magnet for mystery... Someone who attracts all kinds of trouble._ He is right, of course. But...

She looks at the man standing in her room, pulling the tunic over his head. Some forms of attraction, she thinks, should not be fought.

* * *

**This is a new series! Welcome! It's not going only be Bydue but... of course the first one is going to be Bydue because I'm predictable.**

**I admit AUs are kind of my weak point but I still like to challenge myself... anyway, excuse me in advance if you hate it or find it super OOC. o7;; I tried my best!**

**This particular fic is a request from SpooderHearts on Twitter, who asked for Merman Dedue! I hope you like it and thank you for the challenge.**

**Happy Deduesday, guys!**


	2. What if Lord Dedue and Maid Byleth?

**What If... Dedue Molinaro were a Duscur lord and Byleth were his maid?**

* * *

Dedue Molinaro, Minister of Duscur Foreign Affairs, is normally a man of strict duty and stricter countenance. He completes this paper work on time. He never leaves a case incomplete before the given deadline. If Her Majesty the Queen even _hints_ that she believes that Faerghus is overstepping its bounds into their territory, he writes letters of peace and warning within the hour, within the week, within the month, like clockwork.

His meetings with the King of Faerghus in order to further improve their relations go so smoothly that in the street, rumors fly that the serious demeanor he always carries within himself is just a façade, begetting a darker personality that uses blackmail and other underhanded methods, but he ignores such things.

As long as his duties are fulfilled and another peaceful morning rises over the Duscur peninsula, he can rest easily. Especially when his evenings are always quietly cared for in the hands of a certain servant with dark hair and dark eyes like the night sky.

If his fellow ministers ever saw him in his home, they would be surprised to know that in one way, the rumors are correct-he hides a secret, a great one... but perhaps not one that any would expect.

His mind lights on the adjectives people have used to describe him. Focused, for one. One-tracked minded, for another-and yet, as she wipes ginger tea from the table, Minister Molinaro cannot help but be... distracted. He is always distracted when she is near. Glancing at her over the thin slip of his glasses again as he does every evening, Dedue eyes her carefully over the top of his documents.

He looks away, stares at the document, reads the fourth paragraph for the fifth time.

Yes... is there anyone in the world who would believe that he is childish enough to knock over a perfectly good cup of tea, just to stare at his own servant? Most certainly not.

But here he is.

"Thank you, Byleth." She looks up at the sound of her name, nodding briskly. What he wouldn't given to know what thoughts lie behind those dark eyes. She turns to go when he clears his throat. "Please, sit."

"My lord?" She turns, pausing by the door. He says nothing in reply at first, largely because he is shocked that he said anything at all.

"I wish to speak with you." His heart stirs in his chest. Speak with her on what? He races to think of a subject as she slowly steps backs towards him, some hesitation in her footsteps. Once she sits down, Dedue stares at her openly, his eyes lighting on her features. Now, looking at her directly without pretense, he is filled with a quiet sense of appreciation. His constant travels from Duscur to Faerghus and beyond have long since made him immune to the foreign-ness of her features: the large eyes and small, round face without the sharp, heavy Duscur cheekbones that mark his people... the paleness of her skin contrasted with the darkness of her hair when so many of Duscur that he knew had just the opposite palette, the smallness of her stature paired with her immense strength...

He finds them all things he has seen before, and yet... he cannot look away.

It is then that Dedue realizes that he has been staring at her in silence. He clears his throat, pressing his hands together in a traditional gesture of Duscur gratitude, palm to palm and directly in front of his face. "I wanted to... thank you." Her eyes widen as he lowers his hands. _Thank?_ "The steward informed me that you cared for the flowers in my absence. Most do not wish the enter the greenhouse when the weather is humid as it is now, so I appreciate your labors. Those flowers were a favorite of my sister." A lord thanking a servant for mere duty is... strange, but as he says the words, he finds that they are true. _Still_... A part of him wonders. Why is he saying all of these things now? He shifts in his seat with discomfort, but her expression does not change aside from a slight tilt of her head.

"Were?"

"Yes. She is passed now."

"I see." Byleth inclines her head, her eyebrows slightly closer together. "I am glad to care for them. I didn't know the reasoning why, but... in truth... I knew they were important to you. You spend many hours there, after all."

"Ah." They sit in silence once more. Why is it so hard to carry a conversation with her? Is it because he has an ulterior motive through which she can clearly see? Byleth stands suddenly. He looks at her in alarm, but she makes no move to depart. "Shall I pour you more tea, my lord?"

"Please." Perhaps the spice burning through his chest will calm his nerves. "In any case, perhaps... perhaps you could assist me with the greenhouse further? Even when I am not away." Byleth's hands pause over the tea cup before she takes hold of it. Tilting it into his cup, he watches the elegance in her slender fingers and cannot help but imagine them wrapped around a sword instead. But then, her father was a mercenary beforr his untimely death, or so she said. It occurs to him, somehow for the first time, that it would make sense that she is well-versed in the ways of the blade. Something about the steadiness in her hands...

Ah, but he is staring again. Dedue accepts the cup, grimly. He has not smiled this entire time, a habit for which he is prone, and one that the King of Faerghus often teases him for. Despite the fact that their nations sometimes did not agree, he could say without a doubt that his Majesty is his friend... and he can similarly imagine him pounding him on the back with those too strong hands of his and telling him to relax.

Impossible, of course, especially considering that he is certain King Dimitri has just as little experience as he.

"My lord, may I ask you a question?" Her voice surprises him, but Dedue gestures for her to speak, then folds his hands together. "Am I to believe that you are so clumsy that you spill tea every time I attend to you?" His eyes widen in alarm at her directness, even as she eyes him with a dark, piercing stare.

He opens his mouth, then closes it. Finally, he pulls his tea cup closer, wafting the steam towards himself to take a mild whiff. She asks a question so bold when he is barely able to organize his own thoughts on the matter, forcing him to confront what this suspicious desire to see her and bask in her presence means to him.

Dedue murmurs quietly. "Am I so obvious?" She surprises him again, an expression of worry slipping through her eyes as her lips tilt downward.

"Obvious? I only wish to know your intentions." Hesitating, Byleth takes her seat. "I am... grateful of your employ. Since my father's death in your territory, I did not expect for you to take me in..." She trails off, a vulnerable expression he would never have believed her capable of crossing her face. Quickly, though, it shifts into something sharper as she looks directly at him. There is no anger in her face-only flat determination, as if he could not convince her of anything in this world if she did not already wish it. "My lord. I have heard stories of benevolent lords who bed maids who have nothing and no one else. But I... I think of you as an upstanding man, one dedicated to your nation. Please... please tell me that I am right."

He stares at Byleth steadily, only barely able to cover his surprise. Something about her expression tells him that she knows that he has been inquiring of her personal affairs as of late. He'd been certain to make it sound like just idle curiosities, sure that she would hear of it eventually, but he never expected that it would cause her to fear that he would try to bed her against her will, then use his power and prestige to protect himself from consequence. The thought both chills and disgusts him. He is not so naïve as to think that there are not those who would, but he is not at all one of them. "You are right," he replies gently.

"Then what are your intentions towards me? And my future?" Dedue opens his mouth, then closes it. Surely she could not be asking out of interest? He wishes it were so, and in that moment, Dedue has his answer.

Why he peers over his documents and seeks her face amongst the crowd when his staff gathers to welcome him back to the Manor.

Why he thinks of which flowers would best suit her hair when he cultivates new seedlings brought from the other ends of Fódlan.

Why he wonders each day if she already has plans of marriage to another, and if not, if he should make an inquiry himself...

Dedue sighs, removing his glasses as he folds them away. Clearing his throat, he looks at her. Perhaps it is time to discard pretense. "Byleth. I am Minister of the Foreign Affairs of Duscur. The people of this nation... and ensuring they are cared for well the moment they step foot off of our soil... It is the more important goal in I know, something I would lay my life down to guarantee. You understand that, yes?" Byleth nods once in reply. "Then please know that as a member of this household, you too are a woman of Duscur. I would never put you in danger." He takes a draft of his tea. "If you wish to know my thoughts toward you..." Dedue trails off. "I wish to have tea made by your hands each day. As master of this manor, I readily accept that it is all I am due." His words carry a sense of finality, but in truth, he is dissatisfied with them. They are only true in part, and while surely she can guess at their meaning, they feel incomplete somehow.

She muses over his words. _How unfair_, he thinks, that she so readily knows his thoughts and yet he still finds hers a mystery.

"I see." He meets Byleth's gaze, resting his teacup back into its saucer. He is certain that he isn't imagining it, but her eyes seem... warmer. "Then... I will always have the tea prepared in the manner you prefer when you come home."

Inwardly, he knows that the line has now been drawn, and he has no right to wish for more but...

_But nothing._ He tells himself that he will no longer allow gazes of undue length to trail towards her. If Byleth feels safe around him, then it would be improper to-his thoughts stop abruptly at the touch her hand lightly on top of the hands that grasp the teacup. "And if you wish my company, like this, then..." She trails off and removes her hand.

His eyelids flutter with uncertainty. Stern? Reserved? Controlled? Dedue scarcely knows who he is anymore. "Then?"

"I will provide it as well, granted that we take time to know each other?"

A chance to know what lie behind that cool gaze that usually stares right through him, now is tender with emotions he can barely recognize? He can only manage a single phrase. It is surprisingly light, despite the swirling dizziness in his mind.

"I would like that." He pauses to make a soft, serious addition. "Very much."

Byleth's smile is private. The first he has ever seen from her, he wonders how he ever thought he would be able to stop himself from looking at her as she passes him by. She stands to clear the tea tray away, and it takes all he is to place the cup onto it and uncurl his frozen fingers.

"Then... I will serve you at break fast time." Byleth nods, then places her hands together in a polite Duscur gesture, her dark hair wafting in her face as she tilts her head down slightly. It takes all he can not to brush it out of her face, and his thought, the earnest, simple desire in it, the escalation of going from just wanting to look at her to wanting to touch her in whatever manner she allowed... they all surprise him.

Dedue thinks of her hand lightly resting on his, his eyes trailing behind to watch her go.

Breakfast time could not come more quickly if he begged the sun itself.

* * *

**Surely I'm not the only one who immediately thought this with the new DLC of maid/butler outfits.**

_**Surely.**_


	3. What if Admiral Dedue v Pirate Byleth?

**What If #3: What if Dedue was a Royal Navy Admiral trying to capture Byleth, his rival and terror of the seas?**

* * *

Some call him obsessed. It is not a term he prefers, nor one he acknowledges.

In his own words, he is _driven_. Goal-oriented, if one willed it so. He has fought through the ranks since he was a fatherless boy, earning the title that buoys him with responsibility. _Admiral of the Fleet._ The figurehead of the royal navy, protector of his nation's waters. He is a man who relishes in putting things in their proper place and ensuring that wherever he is, structure is sure to follow.

For Dedue Molinaro, order is the backbone of the principles of life he lives by.

Death... chaos... there are few things that can stand against such forces, but it does not stop him from trying. If mere humans can be agents of such forces that destroy the order of his world, then there is no reason that there cannot too exist those who oppose them, acting as a force of their own to try to bring that chaos under control.

A force that preserves life rather than snuffs it out.

A force that brings order to madness.

A force... like himself, hunting down the pirates the sail the seas around the lands that have been placed in his care. It is his calling, one he knows as certainly as he knows the Duscur blood running through his veins.

The Admiral sits in the archway of his windowsill, looking through his spyglass for the ship that haunts him night and day.

_The Crest of Flames_, they call it. Brilliant red, white and green sails on a massive beast of a pirate's vessel, the telltale colors the signal of doom for a lesser ship. But Dedue Molinaro does not run a lesser ship.

His own ship's sails flapping by the distant docks at the end of another day, he lowers his hand and grimaces.

"One day..."

He mutters the words but in reality, he has never been able to find the Captain of the Crest of Flames whenever he seeks her out. Instead, it is always she who finds him. The idea that Dedue Molinaro could be mouse to someone's cat is displeasing beyond belief, but it is a truth he cannot deny. Hair the color of the night sea, eyes just as strikingly deep, and with an expression as cold-some might even say as refreshing-as ice, she is as illusive as the mists of the sea. Oh, he has captured her before-shackled her with his own hands, even-but in the same evening just as surely as the cell door will shut for the night, it will be empty once again.

She is an agent of chaos, taunting him.

Frustrating him.

_Intriguing_ him, if he is honest.

The Admiral shuts his looking glass with a decisive snap, then pulls back the sheets to slip between them. Tonight is not a night for honesty.

...Only to awaken, not even hours later, facing the double barrel of a gun. He hears the click and reaches for his own weapon, touching nothing as his fingertips light on the dresser drawer. Until he realizes, focusing on the engraving of his initials on the side-it is his own weapon in her hands. He stays calm and waits for her to speak, his chest rising with steady, shallow breath.

She speaks, voice low and light, as if death does not lie in her fingertips.

"Good evening, Admiral. You'll have to please excuse the intrusion, but... I believe you have something of mine." He lifts an eyebrow, narrowly resisting lifting his nose towards the ceiling in contempt as if the nose of the cool metal is not what is pushing his neck upwards.

An agent of disorder having the nerve to say 'please'...

A woman of such contrast. Such... such chaos. He loves it, if only because he hates it.

He stares at her, his pale green eyes boring into hers as he grimaces with deep displeasure.

"And you have something of the Sreng East Traders, as well as of Western Adrestian Spice Bureau. Not to mention what you've pillaged of the Duscur Bay Company." He brings his lips into something of a smile, something of a grimace. "You've been busy." Slapping the barrel away with the back of forceful hand, Dedue lunges forward, but even as the gun skitters away, she is already prepared, back-stepping with quick feet across the room. He pushes himself into a roll across the bed, tumbling towards the floor to take hold of the rapier he's mounted on the wall.

The weapon is for show rather than battle, but it will have to do. By the time he detaches it, she is already wielding her cutlass from her vantage point in his windowsill.

Dedue is out-armed-but he refuses to let her get away.

Not again.

He strikes downward with his blade, testing her. With a ready upswing, the Pirate Captain slides her blade against his, using the momentum to push the thin sword aside. She's close now, their sword hilts clacking together unsteadily. She is not as strong as Dedue-but her blade certainly is the mightier of the pair.

It's an advantage that she needs, and one that she uses.

She leans back her neck, fully intending to ram her head into his but he tilts his own head back in the same motion of her forward strike, the momentum pushing her unsteadily into him. He narrowly avoids slicing into her, his rapier clattering to the ground as he catches her by the waist instead, his rough hands gentle against her back as though they are partners gathered and gliding across a ballroom and not in his bedroom, caught up in a dance of life and death.

For some reason, the Admiral freezes as he looks down into the eyes of the woman he has wanted to capture for an age. Her expression is mesmerizing: slender lips pressed together, brows tilted down with grim determination and eyes-not to mention those large, deep eyes glimmering up at him, pupils dilated and drawing him in.

For some reason, in this moment, the desire to capture her has never quite been stronger-but perhaps in a way has nothing to do with prison and chains and everything with binding her to him in a way that cannot be merely chalked up to order defeating chaos.

Every inch of his skin struggles to memorize her the sensation of her frame pressed against him. Dedue is loathe to admit it, but he can even feel himself becoming steadily more conscious of the soft skin of her chest, even compressed in her pirate's robes as it is, the ruffled fabric lining her torso and ribbed with leather-he even finds himself aware of the blade she conceals that he is certain will cut into his flesh with no hesitation if he is not vigilant.

And, of course, speaking of viligance-Byleth swings her fist but he does not duck, nor does he make to flinch.

He does not know why, but he is testing her.

And she? She... touches her fist against his chin in a way that he would consider playful if not for the fact that she eyes him with the same crisp coldness that he finds so enticing. He hates being toyed with, hates the imagery that accompanies every close call as she dances away from him in flashes of silver, yet... as he feels her knuckles brush against his chin, then lower still, her hand gliding down his neck towards his chest, he cannot move. He does not wish to move an inch, his sword clattering out of his grasp in an early, unintentional surrender-

Until he hears the sound of shredding.

He glances down, only to see that Byleth has shorn his this chemise in two, almost, the bottom of the white blouse clinging sadly together by the might of Sothis alone.

Incensed and broken from her spell, Dedue roughly shoves her away, swiping his sword from the ground. Clearing his throat, he notes her blade lying against the floorboards and straightens, pointing his own towards the ground as well.

"Ready your sword."

She ignores his instructions at first, looking at him coolly with a hand on her hip, the posture relaxed with jaunty arrogance.

"I didn't come to fight, Admiral. I just came to claim what's mine." With a thin slicing motion of metal through air, he readies himself, taking a deep breath and bending his knees as he wields the blade.

"You came to be put in a prison cell, to repay the debts you owe and receive justice for your crimes." Byleth can see the seriousness in his eyes. He will not give her a chance to reclaim her sword a second time. The pirate captain reaches for his hat stand and swipes its only user, her head tilted down so he cannot see her face beyond her lips. The rest of her features obscured by a feathered tricorn hat, a Duscur rose tucked into the brim-_his_ tricorn hat, the thieving wench-the corner of her lips quirk up into a smile.

_A smile,_ he thinks, _worth punishing._

"Justice? Ha." She says the word like a joke. Perhaps she thinks it is one. "If only those merchants you protect were as principled as you." And then Byleth swipes her sword from the ground in a single fluid motion and advances again.

He cannot pin her down. She fights with the fury of a stormy sea, her boots lithely dancing up his chair and onto his study table. He swipes horizontally, but she easily steps over the swing from her higher ground, pointing the end of the cutlass towards his neck as if to declare him finished. He refuses to surrender-Dedue Molinaro is only _finished_ on his terms, and no one else's. He swipes again, and this time, Byleth lifts a booted foot to pin the flat blade against the table. He looks up at her quickly, but the motion is not quick enough as Byleth lifts her free foot and stomps it against his chest.

He stumbles backwards, and when she tackles her whole body force into his, he loses both his balance and his grip on his sword. Her own clattering against the ground, they land against the bed. With her knees pinned against his upper arms, he is completely at her mercy.

If only because he wishes to be.

She leans forward, her dark hair a curtain above him, the hat forgotten in her lunge and he... he is frozen in time, pinned in place by her piercing gaze.

Dedue has never been so close to the captain, yet, that is not to say he has not imagined this moment before. In his thoughts, he always thought that he would be able to see it in all its corporeal beauty-the swirling darkness of anarchy that he is certain lies within. He's been so sure that such a sight would solidify his resolve to resist untoward, indecent considerations towards this agent of mayhem, but instead...

_Instead_, he finds her eyes to be the deep, calming blue of the water he so loves. An untameable flow of waves that he dare not touch for fear of sinking in its depths. He is a man who knows the sea, but in this moment, he is wholly drowning in her sight.

All at once, Dedue Molinaro, Admiral of the Royal Navy of Duscur understands. Chaos cannot truly ever be tamed by order. How could it be considering its very nature? It is born to defy order, born to defy _him_ and its existence is as natural as hers. She must exist in this world to create madness as surely as he must exist to tame it. She is... his... compliment.

And he needs her.

He wants to reject this truth, but as she strokes his face with fingers that have no reason to be this gentle, he finds his resolve unravelling like wisps of smoke from a blown out candle. Fading into nothing.

"Why have you come?" His voice is deep, still rigid with resolve. But he can hear it, tangled in his voice. The raspy sound of the things he is wishing for in this moment nesting in his throat. Byleth's skin is so close. So, so close, and yet not close enough.

She does not answer. Instead, she leans downward in a motion that is painfully slow, her nose grazing across his cheek. Her lips stroke across the skin of his brow tenderly. He freezes in place. Her actions are so soothing, so calm, so tender and yet...

And yet they fill him with chaos.

Her lips light on his right ear, and shortly after, Dedue hears the quiet sound of her teeth clinking gently against the fan-shaped earring that rests there. He feels her slide it against his earlobe and unhook it from his ear, but in that moment, he does not care.

Even as she steals it from him, he does not care.

"Byleth." There is desperation in his voice as she brings her gaze back to his. Her eyes are so, so cold and yet he is melting into his own bed, too warm heat building uncomfortably against his back. He clings to this discomfort, if only because if he does not, he will consider that her body feels good weighed against him and how if they were to stay like this until the dawn, he would consider it a night _very_ well spent. His shirt is still opened partially, and he can feel the fabric of her britches against his bare chest, a mere layer separating fabric from skin. "What is it that you want from me?" He hisses the words but to his exasperation, there is no anger behind them. He is merely unable to muster the feelings, and he hopes desperately that she does not detect what he does in his own voice. She strokes the side of his face again, this time her fingers edging against the fullness of his mouth.

"I told you already, didn't I?" Byleth slips her knees from his upper arms to shuffled downward, freeing his arms from the weight of her knees. _Now_, with his arms free, he could push her away if he wanted to-but then, he has dragged heavier, angrier men into prison cells, men who fought him tooth and nail with more resistance and without the bars of slighter bone and skin holding him down, he is forced to admit the truth.

He merely does not want to.

Dedue's arms do not move, limply resting against the soft sheets of his bed as he stares up at her, heart thrumming steadily in his chest.

She leans forward until their foreheads touch, the confidence in her voice a stark contrast to the wavering resolve in his chest. "I am here to claim what is mine." He pauses in confusion.

What could he _possibly_ possess that she has ownership of?

_And more than that..._

He thinks her taking her time to carefully pull on his hat as he waited for her to reclaim her blade from his bedroom floor.

What could he possibly possess that she would be willing to lay down her sword for?

He looks at her quizzically, eyes narrowed, but to his surprise, she does not return the gaze, instead trailing her hand down the pale fabric coating his arm to take his hand. She pulls it upwards, kissing each finger with a delicate touch that should be-that feels-criminal. Then, she presses his hand reverently against her hair, filling his hand with her cheek. He is not unwise enough to wonder any longer as she looks at him piercingly, pointedly with hooded, defiant eyes, and he is left with no doubt as to what treasure she has come to claim.

_Is_ he hers? And in what way, exactly?

Does she think him as one to be possessed? Or...

Does she think him as one to be treasured?

The question sits on his lips as though he does not know the answer as he looks into her eyes.

Dedue always imagined chaos and order as flowers in separate gardens. Order is the greenhouse rose, like the ones he tends to on the rare times that he is home and not on the seas, capturing its foam and filth and executing justice with swipes of his sword. Order is roses tended to in careful rows, nurtured and coaxed into growing strong and blossoming at their full potential.

But chaos... it is more like the wild rose of the meadow. It needs no caretaker to tend to it, blooming with full defiance in spaces where it did not matter if it is wanted or not. With a gardener's touch, Dedue strokes the fingers of his captured hand against her cheek.

And then, because it is his nature, his desire for control, he shifts his weight so that his rose is beneath him, staring up at him with thorns in her gaze.

_What a wild rose you are._ He thinks the words but does not say them. Instead, when he speaks, his voice is stern with authority and none of the tenderness that threatens to utterly consume him. "What makes you think I am yours?"

Her lips tilt upwards into a smile, a wicked untameable confidence in the petals of her eyes. "Was there ever a question?"

_No,_ he thinks. Because she is right-on her appearance, he did not call for his men for one sole reason: she is his to capture and his alone.

She makes no move to push him off-and it is only now, as he stares down at her, that he notes a golden glint in her ear. He vaguely remembers the sensation of the metal hook sliding from his earlobe. _Is that what she did with his earrings?_ Or one of them, rather. He can feel its pair tap against his face as he reaches for the pilfered accessory looped securely in her ear.

Byleth turns her face to press it against his bedding, concealing it from his reach. Even when she is not in power, she is.

But... such is the nature of chaos, he thinks. Always possessing the upper hand, threatening the teetering balance.

Perhaps that is why he is caught up so.

He looms above her, his hands trailing chastely down the outside of her blouse. He cannot bring himself to do much more, and when she lifts her chin to reveal the pale skin of her neck, he touches the flesh reverently. Who knew that such feelings lurked in side of him? How did she?

He wonders if she longs for order as he longs for her.

Does she wish for a formal union, layers of draped white cloth and neatly cut fabric and unadorned promises exchanged before the sea? Of dances and vows made in front of family with pomp and ceremony and formality? She reaches up, brushing her hand along his cheek, and he actually shivers above her. He imagines they are wed for a moment by Duscur tradition. He imagines they are lovers by _any_ tradition.

But as she looks up at him with the same heavy eyes he has fought to capture again and again, he cannot help but think that perhaps they already are.

Perhaps they are and all this time, he was just unaware.

The hour is late, and the wind skirts his curtains, his full sleeves billowing like gentle sails to brush against her face. He cradles it gently and as she shuts her eyes, he leans his face down towards her.

He has lost this battle.

They kiss, his lips gently stroking against hers as waves lapping against the sand. She tastes of salt-_of course,_ he thinks, _because she is the sea_-and he indulges in her kiss as though she will disappear if he does not, angling his head to map out every uncharted touch of her tongue.

He is a cartographer and he wishes to know every inch, every isle, of the woman beneath him.

Something presses against him, too hard, too firm to be flesh.

He remembers then her concealed dagger-but before he can consider if he should worry, she casts it aside, the weight of the blade's handle clattering noisily against the table and knocking a vase to the ground. The shattering glass echoes loudly in the room, and right away-

He sucks in a breath at the sound of heavy footsteps ascending the staircase and remembers where he is. If the guards come, he will have no choice but to do his duty, to restrain the chaos once again and place her in the chains that she will inevitably escape from.

She knows.

Her knees jut sharply upwards, and Dedue barely manages to rolls to the side, narrowly evading sharp motion. What he does not avoid is the left hook of her elbow, the hit furthering his momentum. He loses his balance and falls off the bed, solidly, _painfully_ hitting the ground. Scrambling to his feet and cursing his swayed heart, Dedue looks towards his keeper. He hates to think the word, but it feels true-because he has never tamed her for even a moment, and as he stares at the billowing curtains in the empty room, it is not hard to see who truly is in chains.

He licks his lips and grimaces at the taste of blood. All too easily he finds her taste is erased, the memory more a dream-like all too soon.

_No matter_, Dedue thinks as the doors behind him burst open. _He will simply wait to be captured again._

Patience, he can say, he possesses with a certainty.

"Admiral! Are you alright?" He turns towards his men and thinks on the ripped chemise of his nightwear, the single, missing earring and his altogether disheveled appearance. In comparison to the neat way he painstakingly grooms himself each day, he can't help but think that he must look a sight.

The admiral nods grimly. "Don't worry. I just had an... unexpected visitor."

There is an exchange of looks as they glance around at the room, noting the knocked over books and furniture in disarray. "Why did you not call for help, sire?"

He smiles thinly. "No need. It was a bird. Flew in and left as quickly as it came but... I'm afraid I failed to capture it." He looks to the sea for the sails that carry his agent of chaos, a woman of forces that he is destined to combat again and again. "Next time I will."

"Sire?" Dedue looks back towards his men.

"Leave me." They obey dutifully, Dedue left alone as he stares into the darkness of the sea. As surely as the sun will rise, he will cross blades with her again. Be defeated by her again. Taste her again.

To think otherwise would be to turn his back on his destiny, to bring order to chaos.

To think otherwise would make him less than obsessed... but that is not a word he prefers.

* * *

**So first, I wrote this story to say thank you very much for a hundred followers on Twitter! I hope you guys reading from there enjoy this reward!**

**With this story, this AU series is concluded. It... it wasn't supposed to be only Bydue since I planned one where Seteth and Flayn had a role reversal with her being Seteth's mother... but... well.**

**I know I don't get much response on FFN so I'm not sure if anyone will really read this but... I'm getting to the end of my posting for this fandom. To everyone who read and especially thank you to those who commented, thanks for your interest in my stories. I'll be completing and posting all of my drafts through January so please keep an eye out for those!**


	4. What if Lady Byleth and Butler Dedue?

**What if Byleth were a lady and Dedue were her butler?**

* * *

Byleth stirs at the sound of her butler's voice. Low and soft, it comes with the familiar scent of ginger tea that she knows well. Familiar because whenever he asks what sort of tea she would like to accompany her sweets, she always says ginger. She has watched him make it many times, the large man's graceful hands closed around the handle of the slender silver blade he uses to peel the skin from the pale brown root.

The motions are ingrained into her mind; first, he peels the rough skin from the surface of the root, then dices it carefully before sliding the flat of the knife against the cutting board so that the slivers of ginger will slide directly into the cup with a quick, fluid motion.

Next, he rolls a green citrus fruit between his palms before slowly, carefully cutting the small fruit into two pieces. He'd scrape the seeds from the center of the fruit, and then, clenching his fist carefully, this would be squeezed into the mug.

Last... he would glance up at her, confusion in his brow. "Milady, I do not know why you insist on watching. Is it not boring to watch me work in silence?"

"No." Her reply was always quick, breathless. Of course she would deny it. How could she tire of watching his unconscious working expression, so dark with constant determination yet with hands so light with care? He would sigh in disapproval of this waste of her time, pouring honey into the mixture with a shake of his head and the deepening crinkle of his brow. Oh, how she vexed him, and yet could not stop herself from doing so.

Perhaps it is not right to encroach on his time in this way... yet... _yet-_

Right on time, the water in the boiling kettle with let out a shrill noise. He would turn to complete the cup, the water filling it and breathing spiced steam into the air. The tingling sound of the spoon swirling in the mug. The scrape of the ceramic being pushed across the table. It is all a part of this ceremony, this special time that only she reserves for him, even if he thinks nothing of it. In fact, there is a secret she guards well, one that she would never say since it would jeopardize their secret moments together, and that is this: Byleth has no particular inclination towards the spicy tea.

She has never liked ginger tea, or any other. No, there is a single reason that she orders her manservant to prepare the brew so often.

There was a time, once, she peeped in on him in the garden and saw the way he tenderly brushed the dirt from the roots with brisk, careful movements.

Somehow, she thinks, if she drinks this tea, there is a chance that he will look at her the same way.

Eyes half-lidded, a small smile, his hands cradling her face as though it is a most precious thing, but as is...

His hands are gentle as they cradle the saucer before her instead. She thanks him, her gaze weighty yet missed as he concentrates on his work. "Thank you, Dedue."

"Miss." She sips the unwanted tea dutifully and lets it burn through her.

_Please,_ she thinks. _Please let today be the day._

But today, too, her prayer is unanswered as Dedue simply collects her breakfast with nothing but duty behind his brisk movements. Oh, what she wouldn't do to become ginger in his hands. The butler turns to leave, but as he reaches for the door, Byleth calls out to him. "Dedue, wait." He pauses, turns to look at her with a tilt of his head.

"Milady?" She grasps for something to say, but her mind is blank as she stares at him speechlessly. Dedue waits for her words, but when they do not come, his expression turns puzzled. "Did you want another cup?"

"No, I... was thinking that I cannot just watch any longer," she says honestly. "Dedue, would you teach me how to make tea for myself?" His brow wrinkles again as he adjusts the tray in his arms.

"Are you dissatisfied with the way I prepare it?"

She shakes her head slowly. "I am not. No." And she adds nothing more, her eyes staring at him directly. Dedue tilts his head slowly before turning back towards her.

"I'm afraid I haven't the time today..." He looks thoughtful for a moment. "After I finish my work, perhaps I can take care of it tomorrow after I serve your lunch. Is that suitable for you?"

"Any time of yours that you have to offer... I will gladly take." The words come breezily. Perhaps too much so. Dedue lifts an eyebrow at her, striking an anxious wavering into her chest. Is she... being too obvious? Byleth isn't sure as she gazes at him steadily, her expression unchanging. To her relief, a flicker of confusion briefly crosses his face as he considers, dropping his gaze to the side.

She relaxes. Confusion is good. Confusion means... well, she _hopes_ it means that he cannot read her mind or her thoughts or her intentions.

"If you do not mind an inconvenience, then... would you mind coming to the kitchen to take your tea instead?" She shakes her head.

"I wouldn't mind it, no."

He is already reconsidering. "It is beneath you, I am well aware, and the other servants will perhaps be surprised at your presence but..." He trails off considering before his frown deepens. "Perhaps I should check with your fath-"

"I do not think it beneath me, Dedue. I wouldn't mind at all." She pauses, her lips still. "Besides, I am hardly a lady in the truest sense."

Dedue's gaze is severe. "Who told you such a thing?" Byleth stares towards the window as she stands, brushing crumbs from her dress. No one needed to tell her, not really. Her father is a mercenary turned merchant-one whose skills on the battlefield and constant supply ships to the right place and time had earned him a knighthood. In that sense, yes, it is a title earned but...

There is more than a part of her that itches under the gaze of born and bred nobility in Fhirdiad that tells her of her true place with eyes alone. And not only that...

"Another family rescinded their offer of marriage when they found out the terms." As far as she knows, no one wants to inherit the businesses either. It's much more work than having everything done with a steward and signing off on a few sheets of permissions, but her father is unwilling to give such things to the lose eyes of another.

She looks at Dedue for his reaction but... there is none aside from a nod. "I see."

Before she'd felt rather... neutral when Jeralt first reluctantly reveal the king's suggestion that they cement their new title through marriage. He did not seem to like the idea, Byleth had noticed, but as he explained to her once in a rare moment of vulnerability, she is his only daughter, and if he could give her the comfort and stability his since-passed wife never had a chance to enjoy, then... there is not much he is unwilling to do if she consented.

As she had.

That was the time before Dedue Molinaro had entered into her family's service, after all.

How she wishes he would react to such news so she could tell her father there is no reason to search any longer... but she cannot make Dedue interested. She can only make her own moves and hope that he responds. "Dedue, if I marry, what will you do?"

"Me? The same as I have always done. Manage your affairs." He pauses. "Though I suppose it would then be the affairs of yourself and your spouse."

It is not the reply she wishes for. Stretching lightly, she looks back towards him with her quiet, pointed gaze. "Tomorrow, Dedue."

Dedue has the table prepared for her when she arrives, post-lunch, for the tea lesson. Motioning with a piece of cloth she has never worn, she turns around while he slips the apron around her neck. As Byleth feels his strong, gentle hands touch lightly against her back, tying the string, she wishes that he were not already wearing an apron just so she could do the same to him. In such a gesture lay a challenge. Could she... stir his heart with her hands if he gave her the chance? Could he hear or... feel her own heartbeat, stuttering in her chest?

Unaffected by her floating thoughts, Dedue carefully hands her a knife and a piece of ginger.

"Show me what you can do." It seems simple enough, and certainly she has watched him enough times to know in theory... but the moment she begins to cut, already he is correcting her movements. "You'll lose fingers cutting that way. You'll want to guide the knife like this." He takes the knife to demonstrate, her direct, unblinking gaze directed towards him-not his hands, not his movements, but _him_-looking with eyes that drink him in without pretense.

Glancing up after the explanation to ensure she understands, Dedue balks for a moment at the strength of her stare. "Milady? Are you paying attention to the instructions?"

"...Sorry, I was... distracted."

He sighs. "If you wish to play, then I can findyou something much more entertaining to do."

"Unnecessary. Again, please."

Concise as usual. He slices a few more strips of ginger, then hands her the knife and watches her mimicking his cuts, slowly but safely. She shakes the fringes of her hair from her eyes. Once. Twice. Three times.

As she moves to shift it again, Dedue lets out a tight, low breath of... she isn't sure. Frustration? Displeasure? Her eyes quickly flit upward in concern, a question in them-but he only shakes his head. "I don't know how I did not notice before. Your hair is distracting, I see. Perhaps it would be best to tie it away..." He always carries spares for his own neatly tied style, reaching into his pocket to lightly touch the elastic.

"Oh, that. Yes." She turns back towards the cutting board, stilling completely as she waits. "Tie it back for me." How easily she commands him without a thought to his feelings. Still, Dedue can and does. His fingers slip through her hair as he slicks the strands backwards to tie it securely away from her face. When his fingertips brush against her scalp, she stiffens for a moment, then relaxes completely with a slow, near silent breath. He has never touched her scalp before, but he can see her expression reflected in the pots hung above the kitchen stove. Eyes closed, half leaned into his touch, there is a strange part of him that feels as though he is doing something much more elicit than just running his fingertips through her hair. He indulges her a bit more-or perhaps indulges himself to note more of this expression-massaging her scalp for a few more moments before pulling her hair upwards into a neat bun.

Guilt pierces his chest as she quickly opens her eyes, a slight flush coloring her cheeks. _She_ is his master and such actions are hardly appropriate... even if she seems to enjoy his touch, it is selfish, he thinks, to impose his feelings on one in whom he has been entrusted to care for. He puts space between them, turning to start the stovetop flame and heat up the kettle. As they wait for the water to boil, Byleth touches the back of her neck lightly, slipping her hand upwards along the glossy strands to the space where the bun is tightly wound. "Thank you," she says finally.

"It suits you well." He does not compliment her often, but he has imagined braiding her hair up and away from her face many times. When it comes to grooming, she has always been an impatient girl, prone to chopping away at her own mane with haphazard strokes of any sharp object she can lay hands on, if only to avoid the hour long journey to a salon.

_Such styles fit her well_, he thinks,_ but..._

He is an impeccably groomed man, one who takes much pride in his appearance as to best represent his employer. There is a part of him, vaguely curious, that wonders how he would react if she asked him explicitly to groom her for the day. He imagines the foam of shampoo suds coating his fingers as they slide through her hair. He imagines she limber in his arms, letting him rub the strands clean, her weight resting against him.

"Do you think so?"

_Think so about...?_ Ah, she is speaking of her appearance. If he thinks it suits her.

"Of course." His answer is too quick. "I would not lie to you. You look-" he stops abruptly, eyes widening at his mistake. He had not meant to compliment her directly. ...He always says too much.

"Neat," he finally allows himself to say. "And proper. Perfect." She latches onto the last word, her posture straightening with hope.

"Perfect?" She echoes him, her eyes pale and bright.

"Perfect," he confirms again, because as he looks at her, his brain cannot find an alternative. Until it does. "Perfectly... perfectly neat."

Her voice is a murmur. "You said 'neat' already."

_So I did._

They stare at each other wordlessly, neither of them daring to move or breathe or speak until-

The shrill sound of the screaming kettle acts as a rude awakening. Dedue starts first, turning away to cut off the flame, and when he turns back around, Byleth too has thawed, busying herself by scrapping the chopped ginger from the cutting board to the mug. An image flashes in his mind of him standing behind the young woman, his hand on top of hers as he directs the kettle carefully. She is small and warm and earnest as she pours the tea in front of him, and when the mug is full, they carefully place the kettle aside.

_"You have done well to make this tea,"_ he imagines himself saying, and her lips, usually so taciturn, tilting upwards into a glimmering hint of a smile. "_Perhaps together, we can enjoy the fruits of your labor." _She turns around, wraps her arms around him. _"Milady? What are you..."_ And he would trail off as she presses her face into his chest.

_"Shhh..."_

"Dedue?" The thought has more power than he expects. He blinks rapidly to rid himself of the dream, only to see Byleth waving a hand in front of his frozen expression. "Dedue, the water's ready, isn't it?"

"It... is, yes." He swallows, his throat bobbing dryly with the motion. "Shall..." _Shall we pour it together?_ "Shall I pour it for you, then?"

"Let me. This... isn't for me, after all." He blinks at the claim as she takes the pot, filling the cup with water. Stirring the water into a whirling pool, she looks at him, a ghost of a smile on her lips. "Dedue? Would you have this tea? It is my... my last time to make it for you, after all."

He stares at her uncomprehendingly. "Last time?"

Her heart pounds with the lie on her lips. "I will marry." He still does not react, but she hopes... she hopes that somewhere, deep within...

"You will marry and yet... you wished to make this for me?"

"Yes."

"Not for your future beloved?" His expression turns aghast.

"No."

Dedue's voice comes weakly. "But I... I am just your humble servant."

She nods again. It is a fact. "Yes."

"Yet you wished to soil your hands in my behalf."

She sets her jaw firmly. "If it is in your behalf," she admits after a pause, "there are many things I would do." He gathers her face in his hands. "Dedue?" He looks down into her eyes. There is no excuse on the tip of his tongue, nothing more he can say if she rejects his advances now. He draws her forward, the movement painstakingly slow. She will marry, she says? So at last, the day he has dreaded for so long as finally come.

He should release her with a chaste smile, but...

He kisses the skin of her cheeks tenderly, his hands cupped lightly against her face as though he is showering affection onto a fully blossomed flower bud with new, soft petals. He is deliberately gentle as she freezes under the touch of his lips in surprise-and she right away melts into him, her soft body pressing towards his. When his mouth finally touches against hers, he only means for it to be brief-but her tongue lightly strokes against his lips the second-or third, he isn't sure-time they light against the surface of hers. He parts his lips with willing abandon.

Dedue does not quite mean for it to go so far, but... his own waiting tongue slips against hers gingerly with anticipation, then with more confidence. His hands trails to her shoulders to press her even closer.

_Byleth..._

His mind is full of her, full of this moment, fully aware that it should not be.

Dedue is the one to initiate the intimate touches but he tears his lips away, his voice unsteady and breathless. "We... we should not do this, Lady Byleth. I am below your station, it is not proper for me to-" She ignores him, pressing herself upwards to meet his lips again. He holds her body tightly against his, a desperate sound of longing of which he is undoubtably the source, murmured between them. He breaks it again. "Wait, please. Think. Are you certain you wish to-" _kiss a servant?_ He thinks to ask, but he cannot even finish the sentence. Her fist is filled with the edge of his apron as she jerks him back down to meet her lips once more.

They should not do this, Dedue already knows, but he is the one who chose to play this dangerous game. Surely he could sense the outcome when he has been aware of-and ignored-Byleth's interest. But... he has allowed the idea and thought of stepping his feet on equal ground beside her rest as a lingering temptation when he should not have done so for much, _much_ too long.

How many nights had he prepared her room for bed and wished to be the one laying beneath the sheets beside her? How often had he mended her clothes and wondered what it would be like if he were the one to tear them away if she would allow it so? And the meal times where, again and again, he is so close, yet cannot sit beside her if he wished it on the greatest of comets.

And such was _before_ he knew of her interest. Not that she had a chance of hiding it for long: the weight of the looks she would give him.

How difficult it has been to pretend that he does not see when she carries the subtlety of a coming storm. She'd been a woman waiting to be promised to another and he has nothing to offer. No title, no training in matters of merchandise-he does not measure up the least of her candidates, and yet... Dedue finds himself in his bed each night, wondering what it would be like to call her by name.

...He can still remember the first time he noted her piercing gaze on him as he hung the laundry to dry. At first he thought it mere coincidence, but for her to be in the window each and every time, yet look away whenever he glanced in the direction of her balcony...

It was the first seedling of hope, one he should not have planted.

But once noted, it could not be unseen-the way her eyes followed him like a shadow pressed against his toes. The soft, warm affection in her voice as she called his name. The way she said nothing in words but everything with the gentle touch of her hands, not to mention... that fateful day when she approached asking him to make her ginger tea-his _favorite_ tea-and the hope that one day he could grow the confidence to ask that they might drink it together was planted.

It had yet to happen but...

But as their lips move together as one, the smell of ginger on his hands and pressed against her skin, he is certain that she would answer yes, no matter what he asked of her. The desperation gives way into something softer, and his fingers gather against the base of her neck to bring the warmth of her lips closer still. She tastes him delicately, tilting forward to the tips of her toes to bring herself closer. Distantly, the thought comes to her mind.

_He tastes nothing of ginger._

She is grateful. She never liked the taste. Instead, she finds his lips much more intoxicating than any brew he has ever prepared.

Unaware of her thoughts, Dedue again pulls away as he feels her hand brush down the buttons of his butler uniform. "Byleth." His voice, normally so controlled, so smooth, is hoarse. Her wordless gaze touches his mouth longingly, then his eyes, prompting him to continue. "I must confess." He takes a step away to look at her in earnest. "Yesterday, you asked me what I will do if you marry another. I... I lied. I could not be by your side anymore. Not when I have such feelings for you." His shoulders droops. "I am sorry to say it, but... Byleth, I adore you." She nods slowly, her gaze sliding to the ground for a moment.

"Then it is good there is no proposal."

His eyes widen with shock. "What?"

"I... I have a confession to make as well." He waits for her reply as Byleth brings her eyes up once more. "I never liked ginger tea. I have only wanted your company."

_"My_ company?" He crosses his arms, slightly confused. He is not a man who speaks often, after all, and another person desiring his presence is hard to fathom. She clarifies softly.

"I have only wanted you." He sucks in a breath through his teeth, then releases it slowly. Dedue has always sensed her feelings but... to hear her say such things aloud, and with such serious eyes... they somehow hold a type of power that her sharp gaze alone could not communicate. "I accept your resignation. Would you consider a new position instead?" He uncrosses his arms as she edges towards him in a way he would call shy if not for the fact that, as usual, her expression does not betray her.

"A new position?"

She nods. "Love is, in fact, a part of the contractual agreement."

_Ah._

He has an inkling of what she wishes to ask of him. He smoothes his hand against the slicked back hairs of her head affectionately. "And is the seal of approval a kiss, then?"

"You know it well," comes Byleth's serious reply. Her fingers edge to his apron collar, drawing him closer and closer to a sealed fate. "Will you agree?"

His lips part in anticipation as he dips towards her. "I do."

* * *

**This was originally written in a Twitter thread as a "ficlet". I decided to turn it into a full story. I hope you enjoyed this one, too!**

**Feel free to tell me what you thought? Which did you like better? **

**(What if #2's) Lord Dedue or Butler Dedue? Lady Byleth or ****(What if #2's) ****Maid Byleth?**


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